


A Royal Pain in the Ass (Figuratively Speaking)

by catiegeekgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and Anathema are best friends, I'll probably add more tags later, M/M, Multi, Prince Crowley, Rating May Change, Tutor Aziraphale, author is a mess, but like really slight cause I don't play those games, but so are the characters so it's ok, haven't decided yet, kinda fantasy kinda not, mostly just don't want to be historically accurate, slight homophobia, so this is my world now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catiegeekgirl/pseuds/catiegeekgirl
Summary: Crown Prince Crowley is very good at getting rid of his royal tutors and has been successfully doing so for the last decade. But he's one year from being king and his best friend, Anathema, has convinced him that it's time to strap in and put in some goddamn effort. He begrudgingly agrees, but he wasn't expecting his next tutor to be someone he actually wanted to stick around.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I've been sitting on this AU for literal months now and I'm finally deciding to bite the bullet and release it out into the world to hopefully motivate me to finish it. I won't have any update schedule cause college is a bitch but if you are actually invested in what the fuck happens to these loons, make some noise in the comments and I will do my best to provide. Hope you like it!

Crowley’s favorite argument to give his endless tutors was that he was already technically king, so they were compelled, by law, to do whatever he demanded of them. This, of course, wasn’t quite true and his tutors knew so. Crowley’s father had died a decade ago, leaving Crowley as the only male heir at the age of seven. The kingdom had scrambled for a new ruler for about a day and a half before Queen Beelzebub took the role. A queen had never been the ruling monarch before, but no one could deny that Beelzebub was an intelligent and competent leader, having taken a large part of the role when her husband was still alive. So, it was agreed that she would hold the throne until her son came of age. That event that had seemed so far in the future was now only a year away.

And the boy was nowhere near ready.

Crowley had known from a young age that he would one day be king. He was the first and only son of his father, so his future had always been heading in that direction. However, he knew that he wouldn’t take the throne until his father died, and that would be ages away. Indeed, his father hadn’t been crowned until he was thirty, so, at the age of six, Crowley felt he had an entire lifetime before he was ever saddled with any real responsibility and found it truly easy to get out of his tutoring lessons whenever he felt like it.

The next year, King Lucifer had been assassinated.

Crowley suddenly found that his teaching was being taken much more seriously, and the lifetime he had seen for himself before he would be King was rapidly shrinking before his eyes. So he did the only thing a seven-year-old could do in this situation: he threw a tantrum.

And then he threw a tantrum the next day.

And the next day.

And he kept doing this until eventually, the tutor quit, claiming that she was a tutor, not a nanny. But then, something marvelous happened: he was set loose. In the week that it took for the palace to find a new tutor, Crowley was practically unsupervised. The kingdom was still in the aftermath of his father’s death, so no one had the spare time or energy to look after the prince. And this is how Crown Prince Crowley’s reputation as an untutorable child began.

Crowley became very good at driving away his tutors. He would be good for a couple of days, quietly observing, then by the third day he would launch his attack. He was usually successful after a week or two and no one had lasted longer than a month. Crowley would scream, break things, set traps, feign deafness, copy every word in a mocking tone, chant ominously, bring in bugs and animals he’d found in the garden, hide away in secret rooms where no one could find him, throw chunks of chalk, speak in made up languages, and any other number of irritating tactics to get out of his lessons. When he got older, one of his favorite tactics had become flirting with his male tutors. This only backfired once, a fact that Anathema would never let him forget. This was especially rich considering it had been Anathema’s idea, when she was thirteen, for Crowley to make use of his devilish charm rather than just his devilish mischief. 

“You’re starting to get too good at this,” said the brunette, sweeping into the room with her long flowing skirt. She had spent most of her life adamantly refusing to ever wear a petticoat and her parents, as well as the castle staff, had all learned to give it up as a lost cause. She flopped down on the sofa next to Crowley, tossing him an apple from the bowl beside her before grabbing one for herself and taking a large bite. “That last one actually looked heartbroken while they were dragging him away. You know, underneath all the burning fury.” Crowley hummed half-heartedly through his own mouthful of apple. “What on Earth is it that you do to them?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the prince answered, his red eyebrows dancing over the rim of his dark glasses. Anathema swatted the lanky leg stretched out next to her and he let out a small chuckle. “It’s nothing, really. The bookish ones are easy ‘cause they’re all romantics, and the scientists are easy ‘cause they’re all so damn prideful. Everyone in between just doesn’t have the patience.” He took another bite of apple. “Pa’hetic, really.”

Anathema nodded. They both fell silent, the sound of apple-crunching providing the only soundtrack for the sunny salon. Anathema began absent-mindedly petting the snakeskin boot rested in her lap. Crowley took note of her nervous energy but he didn’t do anything about it. She wasn’t like this often, but when she was, it was best to wait it out. She would talk when she was ready.

“Crowley, as much as I love hearing about your wiles, and you know I do… You’re seventeen.” She glanced over at dark lenses, red eyebrows raised in an expression that clearly said  _ And? _ “You will need to know these things. You know, leader things…  _ Kingly _ things…” Crowley’s expression didn’t change and Anathema couldn’t help but let out a frustrated sigh. “Crowley, you will be King in less than a year, and frankly, that’s not a lot of time to get your shit together. You need to start taking your lessons seriously. I know you’re smart but that doesn’t make up for a lack of education. If you’re going to rule and rule well… then you need to know these things.”

Anathema was his best friend. They had been promised to each other the day Anathema had been born and so were allowed to spend quite a bit of time with each other as children. They had grown very close, both choosing not to think of the eventual nature of their relationship. 

A couple years after Crowley had started his tutor charades, Anathema had started helping him think of tactics. She was two years younger than him and so hadn’t been much use as more than an accomplice in the early days, but they soon discovered that they made a magnificently devious team. Crowley trusted Anathema more than anyone else in the world. She was the first (and only) person he told of his interest in men, the only person he could confide in, the only person he could be wholly himself with.

And he’d never felt more betrayed in his life.

“Are you  _ seriously _ taking their side?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side, Crowley. I’m worried about you.”

“Where is this even coming from?” the prince asked, harshly pulling his feet from his friend’s lap. “Since when do you care about my education?”

“Since that education affects more than just you.” Anathema’s look was stern, frustrated. Sometimes it was easy to forget how young she was. “The entire kingdom is going to be depending on you to know what you’re doing, and no matter how much you hate it, you owe them the effort.”

Crowley glared back at the girl’s round spectacles, giving her his practiced Intimidation Look, but her firm gaze didn’t waver. Suddenly, Crowley was on his feet, pacing agitatedly in front of the sofa, boots clicking softly against the smooth stone floor. “I never asked for this, you know. I never wanted any of this.”

“I know. Neither did I.” Anathema’s voice was soft but Crowley could hear the edge underneath it. He spent so much time trying to forget the fact that he was being forced into leading a kingdom that he almost never remembered that she was supposed to be queen. There was a slight pang of guilt in his stomach but he ignored it. 

“Maybe if they sent any competent tutors my way, it would be less of a problem, but they’re all complete knobs. And, like, a thousand years old.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow. “Your complaint is that they’re too old?”

“Well it’s not my  _ only _ complaint, is it? But it doesn’t help.” Crowley went to run a hand through his curls before remembering that it was half up. Instead, he frustratedly rubbed the back of his head, tousling the otherwise neatly combed hair. “What use is it to learn about what the kingdom was like generations ago? That’s not the world I’ll be looking after.”

“What do you mean?”

Crowley stopped his pacing and turned to look at his friend. “I  _ mean _ that I shouldn’t be wasting my time learning my family tree for the last thousand years, or improving my handwriting, or riding horses ‘properly,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean. I should be learning about my people, right? Right?” Anathema slowly nodded. “Right. But they never want to spend time on that stuff. That’s the real problem, Anathema. They’re not training me to be a leader, they’re training me to be some compliant gentleman and I  _ hate it. _ ”

Anathema looked up at him from her place on the sofa. His breathing was slightly heavy and his hair was starting to stick up weird, and if he hadn’t been wearing his glasses, she would see a look in his eyes that could be mistaken for pleading. “Have you told anyone? I mean, the tutors or the Queen or anyone?”

There was a small mirthless laugh as Crowley shook his head. “They don’t listen to me. For the crown prince I have an astonishingly small amount of power. If I start asking too many of the wrong questions…” Crowley cleared his throat. “Anyway, at this point, I figure this is the only way to claim any bit of control over my life. So let me have this, yeah?”

The afternoon sunlight shone through his glasses, giving Anathema a hint of the gold she knew to be hidden underneath. God, he had such expressive eyes. She knew it to be one of the reasons he covered them. “I’ll talk to my mother, see if she can’t talk some sense into the Queen.”

Crowley snorted. “Fat chance. What’s she going to say? ‘Hey there, Bee, old gal. How about you let your son learn something useful so he can actually take over for you when he’s supposed to?’ I don’t really see that happening.”

“You know the Lords will never let her continue to rule. They had a deal.”

Crowley threw his arms in the air. They’d had this argument many times before. “Why shouldn’t they let her? She’s good at it! Sure, she’s a bit of a bitch-”

“ _ Crowley _ -”

“-but that doesn’t mean they should just give the job to a kid. Cause that’s what I am, Anathema. I’m a kid. She’s good at her job and I am perfectly happy waiting to rule. For, say, another lifetime or so.”

The room was quiet, both looking at each other, knowing exactly where this argument was going. Anathema’s voice was very soft. “She’s a woman.”

Crowley’s lips were pulled tight over his teeth. “I know she is.”

“Women aren’t allowed to rule. She’s only taking over until your training is done.”

“Says who? Who decided women weren’t allowed to rule?”

“Everyone.”

“Well, it’s stupid.”

“I know.”

They continued to stare at each other. Then all the fight seemed to leave Crowley’s shoulders. He flopped back down next to Anathema, laying his head on her shoulder. She gently threaded her fingers through his hair. “I know,” she whispered again.

“Do you think it would make a difference? You know, if you talked to your mother?”

Crowley’s head bobbed as Anathema shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt. She probably can’t completely fix the problem but it’s not like it can get a lot worse, can it?” Crowley grunted and Anathema glanced sideways at him. “I’ll only do it if you promise to make an effort, though. I won’t waste my time if you’re just going to chase away whoever else they come up with.

Crowley let out a long sigh, but Anathema just waited for his response. “Yeah. All right.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale was the top student at the Royal University. He was also one of the youngest. His father was a merchant who, quickly understanding that his son would be wasted as a leatherworker, scrounged up enough money to send him off to higher education. At the age of eighteen, Aziraphale was only a year and a half away from finishing his degree. In addition to being the best in nearly every subject at the university, (arithmetic, try as he might, still alluded him), Aziraphale had earned a reputation for being one of the friendliest and most genuine people on campus, maybe in the entire capitol. He loved helping and spent a great deal of his time in the library both chipping away at his own work and wandering about for anyone who might need a second set of eyes for a paper.

So really, it shouldn’t have come as too much of a shock when he was approached by a messenger of the palace requesting he accept the position as Royal Tutor. It was, technically, a request, but Aziraphale got the distinct impression that refusing was not an option.

Still.

“Why do they want me?” he asked the messenger, blue eyes wide with confusion and shock. A couple students seated at other tables threw him some Looks at his raised voice and he mouthed a quick  _ Sorry _ in their direction. Turning back, he added in a lowered voice, “I haven’t even finished my degree! What could they want me for?”

The young man gave him a withering look. “I’m just the messenger, sir. They don’t tell me anything I don’t need to know.” He held out a small envelope stamped with the royal crest. “You are to report to the Palace Gates tomorrow at eleven sharp. Give this to the guards, they will take it from there. Good day, sir.” And he was gone.

The next morning was crisp and clear. Aziraphale stood across the street from the silver palace gates, letter being crumpled in his anxious grip. He had woken up early that day to inform his professors of his absence only to be told that they were already aware of the situation. The palace knew what they were doing, it seemed. Somehow, that didn’t make him feel any better. He had no  _ idea _ how he was going to pull this off. His golden pocket watch told him that he was not summoned for another twenty minutes, but there was nothing else to do at this point other than stand at the gate and wait for the time to pass. With slightly damp hands, he unfolded the letter and read it for the dozenth time. It informed him of the details of his new position. He was to tutor the crown prince in grammar, logic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy as well as local history, economy, and politics. He would be compensated, of course, and would have any and all resources available to him, including the palace library. Aziraphale tried not to get distracted by that last part… again. He had heard wonderful things about the palace library, although it was all rumors and fourth-hand accounts. No one but the royal family and choice staff were allowed to even see the place, let alone actually read the books in it. If he were being honest, that single opportunity was almost compensation enough. 

That didn’t make him any less terrified of the task put before him. He pulled his satchel in front of him and went back through all the books and notes he had brought with him. He had notes on every subject, and as many books as he had managed to shove in the poor thing, which turned out to be three: his favorite philosophy text, a small book titled  _ A History of the People _ , and  _ The Big Book of Astronomy _ . He figured that he would spend the first few days getting an idea of where the prince stood and go from there, so really he didn’t need the books at all, but they brought him comfort, and comfort was something he gravely needed at the moment.

The pocket watch was back out. Five to eleven. That was probably close enough. He couldn’t imagine getting scolded for being a bit early. Taking a deep breath, one hand clutching the now very crumpled paper and the other clutching the leather strap of his bag, Aziraphale stepped into the street and made his way to the guard standing just to the side of the gates.

The boy looked to be about Aziraphale’s age, though quite a bit taller and with the physique of a stalk of wheat. His large glasses sat stubbornly crooked on his nose and his eyebrows gave him the appearance of being perpetually nervous. Although that appearance may also have been due to the fact that the poor boy was, in fact, perpetually nervous.

“Excuse me, um, sir. I was told to give this to you?” Aziraphale held out the paper, not quite recognizable as a letter anymore but still bearing the royal crest. “I’m the new royal tutor.”

“Oh, right, um,” The young guard took the paper, graciously ignoring the damp spots. Shuffling his spear to the crook of his elbow, he opened the letter and read the loopy script. The longer he read, the closer his nervous eyebrows got to each other. “Um, let me get- it’s just that I’m new, see. Only my second day. But I’m sure Shadwell will know what to do with this. So I’ll just-” The boy pointed to the other side of the gate, gave a sharp nod, and quickly made his way over to where Aziraphale could now see another guard. 

“Sergeant Shadwell, sir? The new royal tutor is here. He’s got a letter. Says we should know what to do.”

The older guard made a sound somewhere between a growl and a sneeze before opening his eyes to look at who had interrupted his mid-morning nap. “Wasat, lad?”

“The tutor, sir.” He tilted his head toward Aziraphale who had carefully followed and was standing only a few feet away from the two guards. Shadwell blinked at the fair-haired man, then looked back at his fellow guard before snatching the poor abused letter from the young man’s hands. Bloodshot eyes scanned the page. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to find and shoved the paper back into the other’s hands with a harsh nod. 

“Right. Take em up to the palace then, laddie. If the Queen be expecting em, she’ll be waitin’ in the reception hall.” The young man looked blankly through his dark bangs at the Sergeant, spear still balanced precariously against his elbow. “Go on, then. Haven’t got all day, have ya?”

“Oh, yes. I mean no. I mean, I’ll just-” With one last nod, the young guard turned to face his new assignment, only to find the man looking rather ill. He hadn’t thought the tutor could look any paler, and yet there he was, looking nearly transparent. “Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh! Yes, of course. Absolutely tickety-boo! To the palace then?” Aziraphale was handed back his letter and lead through the gate which was opened with a key hung from the guard’s belt. Aziraphale had only just started to accept that he would be working with the prince, but the  _ Queen? _ He thought he would be meeting with a steward or something of the like, not the actual ruler of his kingdom! 

“What did you say your name was, dear boy?” he asked the guard, hoping to provide himself with a distraction from his quickly spiraling thoughts.

“Newton. Newton Pulsifer.”

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Newton. Thank you for all your help.”

The guard ducked his head to hide the small blush crossing his cheeks. “I haven’t exactly done much to help, really. And you can just call you Newt.”

“Newt, then.”

They walked in silence for a stretch, boots crunching on the gravel-paved walk up to the palace doors. Why did the doors have to be so far away?

“So you’re new here? At the palace?”

Newt looked down as if snapped out of thought. “Oh, yes! Started yesterday. Had family on the guard, back in the day, and I heard they were looking for new people, so I decided to give it a shot. Don’t have a lot of applicable skills or anything, but,” he shrugged, “figured I could stand by a gate and hold a pointy stick. And show tutors around.”

“Well that’s both of us, then. Being new, I mean,” he added at Newt’s creased eyebrows. “I was only told yesterday that I had been offered this position.”

“Offered?”

Aziraphale gave his companion a tight smile. “I feel ‘required to appear’ would have been more accurate phrasing, but all the same.”

“I hope you can handle it. Shadwell’s been telling me all sorts of things about the prince. Apparently, he goes through tutors like… like… well, you know what I mean. And he’s been caught trying to sneak out more than once.” Newt turned and was met with wide blue eyes. “Oh! Not that I don’t think you can do it! That’s not what I meant at all! I was just, I,” Newt was waving his hands, spear swinging dangerously, face positively panicked. “I’m sure he’s not that bad. I only meant to say that, from what I’ve heard, he can be… mischievous. Supposedly.”

This had not been as good a distraction as Aziraphale had hoped. “Right. Thank you for the forewarning, dear boy. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Newt just nodded and turned back towards the palace, only to be surprised to find they had already arrived at the door. He seemed to hover there for a moment, not quite sure what to do but not wanting Aziraphale to know that, before tentatively knocking on the ornate wood. It was almost immediately opened by a young man who looked eerily similar to the man who had delivered Aziraphale’s letter the day before. His dark eyes looked the two visitors up and down before speaking. “The new tutor?”

Aziraphale looked back at the young man, unsure if he was permitted to speak or not. After a moment of silence, he turned to look at Newt to find the guard already looking at him expectantly. “Oh! Yes. Yes, that’s me.”

The doorman nodded, then turned his attention to Newt. “You are to escort him to the reception room.”

“Right, yes, about that, I was wondering if-” But the doorman was no longer listening. He simply held open the door and waited for the two younger men to step through, then closed the door behind them and sat on a satin-upholstered chair, returning to a world of his own and entirely ignoring the other two. Newt gave a wary look, then turned to face the foyer. “Ok. Um… this way then.” And he took off towards the right ring of the palace. 

Their footsteps echoed slightly as they slowly made their way through one room after the other. After walking through each new doorway, Newt would slow down, glance around, then continue to the next room. The perpetual nervousness of his expression increased the further they ventured until Aziraphale placed a soft hand on his elbow. “Is everything alright, Newt?”

The taller one looked over, carefully trying to straighten his glasses and swallowing thickly before answering, “Um, yeah. Sure. It’s just that, well, I’m new.”

“Yes, dear boy, I believe we’ve covered that.”

“And I haven’t exactly, um, gotten the lay of the land yet?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. Something cold was settling in his stomach. “Newt… do you mean to tell me that you’re lost?”

“Um… yes?”

“Oh good lord.”

Between the apologetic rambling and the resigned sighs exchanged between the two men, neither heard the footsteps approaching the ballroom. It wasn’t until they were met with a soft, “Ahem,” that they both fell silent and turned to see who had found them. The woman, (or girl? She seemed almost ageless), stood a few feet away in a long flowing navy dress. Her thick brown hair was partially pulled into a knot at the back of her head and round spectacles sat purposefully on her freckled nose. She appraised the two of them with sharp brown eyes, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in question. “You boys wouldn’t happen to be lost, would you?”

Aziraphale looked to Newt but the only sound the guard seemed capable of producing was a breathless sort of squeak. Very helpful. What a guide.

“It appears so, yes. I’m the new tutor?”

The girl/woman turned to Aziraphale, renewed interest in the curve of her eyebrow as she carefully looked him up and down. Aziraphale felt distinctly like he was being evaluated. Whatever result she came up with, her expression did not share it.

“I’m Anathema,” she said, hand outstretched. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Aziraphale. Likewise.” They shook. Anathema turned her attention to Newt who looked like he couldn’t quite decide between running away and fainting right on the spot. Finally showing some sympathy, Anathema gave him a reassuring smile. “What was your name?”

“Newt-Newton Pulsifer, your Grace.” He bent at the waist in a shaky bow.

“There’s no need for that. Just Anathema is fine. Thank you for escorting our guest. You may return to your post.”

“Right. Thank you, uh, Anathema.” Newt gave what looked like an awkward curtsy and immediately looked as if he wanted to give himself a solid smack in the forehead. Fortunately he abstained, still clutching his spear, and instead turned and near sprinted for the door.

“Oh, and Sir Pulsifer?” The guard screeched to a halt just before the exit and carefully turned to look back. “Would you mind telling Shadwell that if he ever feels inclined to send a new hire to do his job again, that he should remember that I know where he keeps his alcohol. And where he takes his afternoon naps.” Those sharp eyes twinkled mischievously and Aziraphale wondered if the prince would have the same look. He could deal with that kind of mischief, he thought.

Newt gave a curt nod and a “Right, I’ll do that,” before turning to leave. He paused before adding quietly, “And you can call me Newt, if you’d like.” And his footsteps were disappearing down the hall.

Anathema gave an approving smirk. “He’ll do alright. So!” The exclamation and the clap of hands made Aziraphale jump. “You’re late but that clearly wasn’t your fault. Why don’t I just take you straight to Crowley? I’m sure the Queen will understand.”

… 

Crowley was bored. This wasn’t a new sensation. He spent a great deal of his time being bored, but he was used to being able to do something about it. Instead, he was sprawled half across a mahogany desk and half across its matching chair, leisurely tossing and catching an apple and waiting for his new tutor to arrive. He had promised Anathema that he would give the next guy a chance and he was already regretting his decisions. How in the Hell was he supposed to get through this without tearing his coppery hair out? Maybe he should cut it. Less of a chance of doing something he might regret later.

Fifteen minutes after eleven, Crowley was slowly banging his head against one of the books resting on the desk. He had tried going straight for the mahogany but found it a bit less forgiving than he would like. He was bored, not masochistic. At least, not at this moment.

The door to the study opened with a slight creak and Crowley sat up, shoving his glasses back onto his face and putting on an air of nonchalance. “Finally. I was wasting away.”

“You were not, you drama queen.”

“Not the queen yet.”

Anathema just rolled her eyes and leaned her hip against the doorframe. “The new guard got him lost because Shadwell is a shit. Get your feet off the table.” Crowley kept his feet exactly where they were and stuck out his tongue for good measure. Anathema slowly raised an eyebrow over her glasses and, after a moment, Crowley dropped his feet with a huff. “Are you done being a child?”

“For now.”

“Great.” She turned to look over her shoulder. “You can come in. He’s ready to behave himself.”

Crowley’s first thought was that they had found another old geezer to wheeze at him as he saw white curls peek out from behind his friend. But then the man actually stepped into the room and Crowley caught his breath. Under the platinum curls was a round, friendly face and the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. Out of everyone they could have picked in the entire kingdom… 

“Crowley, this is Aziraphale. Aziraphale, Prince Crowley. This is probably the most royal you’ll ever see him.”

It took all of Crowley’s self control to keep his jaw from falling to the floor.

_ I gave it away. _

Oh, he was royally  _ fucked _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that all the exposition is out of the way, we can get the ball rolling! Comments and kudos give me life <3


	3. Chapter 3

_ Two months earlier… _

It was getting late and the pub was becoming too empty for Crowley’s comfort. If the crowd thinned too much, he was more likely to be noticed and he didn’t want people asking awkward questions about why he was wearing his hat and coat indoors. He didn’t have a good answer.

Double checking that his hair was still carefully tucked away, Crowley stood and made his way out, leaving more than enough to cover his bill sitting on the sticky wooden table. The wind slammed into him when he opened the door, nearly knocking his hat clean off. He carefully fixed its placement on his head and wrapped the large trench coat tighter around him. He had stolen the coat from Shadwell, (which wasn’t difficult to do considering how often the man was unconscious), and its main function was to hide Crowley’s thin frame. But the prince also ran cold and he appreciated the warmth the grizzled wool supplied him. A similarly-worn scarf was produced from one of the large pockets and wrapped around his face. He wanted to be able to still feel his ears and nose by the time he got back to the palace. Plus, the less of his face people could see, the better.

Feeling properly wrapped up and hidden, Crowley turned left to start making his way home when something caught his eye. Ahead, maybe a block, was a head of curly platinum blond hair being tousled thoroughly by the wind. Crowley had become quite familiar with that particular head of hair over the last couple of hours. The other man had been eating dinner just a couple tables away while Crowley sipped at his own house brown. Crowley snuck into town mainly to people watch and the blond man had been especially entertaining. He ate like it was a type of worship, carefully catching a bit of everything on his fork and slowly chewing with a look of absolute bliss on his face. Crowley had never seen anyone be so happy because of something as mundane as food. It had been enthralling.

The thing was, though, Crowley was sure the other man had left the pub quite a while ago and would have expected him to be a ways away by now. And there was something else.

“Didn’t you have a coat?”

The blond jumped at the sudden voice, letting out a small yelp. He turned to Crowley with big blue eyes, a hand pressed to his heart. His cheeks and nose had turned pink in the cold and the street lanterns lit up his hair like a halo. “What?”

Crowley yanked down his scarf so he could speak more clearly, making sure to keep his ears covered. “Your coat. Looked warm as anything. What happened to it?” The blond blinked at him, then turned to look over his shoulder as if wondering where Crowley had come from. Crowley swallowed. He hadn’t exactly  _ sprinted _ to catch up with the other, and even if he had, it wasn’t like the blond would have any way of knowing. Right? Crowley was probably just projecting. “Left it back at the pub, did you?”

“I gave it away.”

“You  _ what? _ ” 

The blond turned back to face Crowley and said more clearly, “I gave it away.”

The two stared at each other for a moment, Crowley’s mouth hanging open and the other’s cheeks growing steadily more pink. He turned forward just in time to avoid walking directly into a lightpost, instead quickly sidestepping so he was temporarily pressed into Crowley’s side. The pink in his cheeks turned to red and he returned his attention to where he was going. 

Crowley finally seemed to find his voice from wherever it had been knocked out of him. “Why?”

The other huffed indignantly. “It’s cold out here and she’s expecting soon! So I said, here you go, warm coat, don’t thank me.” He looked like he was trying awfully hard to not look cold himself, with very limited success. His only protection from the biting early winter air was a crisp white linen shirt and a well-worn velvet waistcoat. “Really. A new mother living on the streets. It’s not right.”

They passed by another lantern and the man’s halo of curls positively  _ glowed _ . “An angel.”

“What was that?”

“You’re an actual angel.”

The newly proclaimed angel let out a dismissive laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I just did what anyone would have done.”

“Look, angel, I’ve seen enough to know that almost no one would have given up their own comfort, no matter how briefly, for the sake of someone else’s.” Crowley looked at the towers of the nearing palace without really seeing them. “That’s not how the world works.”

The angel followed Crowley’s gaze, then returned to his companion. “So sorry, what was your name?”

Crowley turned sharply back and he suddenly sorely missed his glasses. They were tucked into his inside pocket but he couldn’t wear them when he was in town. Them with his hair would be a dead giveaway, and he only ever snuck out at night, so it wasn’t like he actually  _ needed _ them. But right then, right there, knowing that blue eyes could read everything through his own gold, he’d never felt more naked. “Anthony,” he answered. It was the name he gave people when he wasn’t being the prince. That or occasionally Anthonia, if he was in the mood. “Name’s Anthony.”

“Well, Anthony, I think maybe you need to see more of the world.” And just like that, the angel was crossing the street to disappear into one of the apartment buildings, leaving the prince alone on the sidewalk, in the cold, completely dumbfounded.

_ Now…  _

_ Aziraphale _ .

For two months now Crowley had been kicking himself for not getting the man’s name, and now here it was, falling into his lap just like that.

_ Aziraphale _ .

Crowley realized that it had been a little too long since he’d said anything. “Uh, right. Thanks for that introduction, Anathema. Charming as always.”

“If you don’t like it, prove me wrong.” After an entire lifetime of friendship, Anathema had learned to tell when Crowley was rolling his eyes at her, even if she couldn’t actually see them. Choosing to ignore him, she turned back to Aziraphale with a comforting smile. “I’m going to go find the Queen and fill her in. Everything you needed to know was in the letter, so you can go ahead and get started.” She turned back to Crowley, sharpness returning. “Be nice. And remember what you promised-”

“I know I know.” He waved her off. “Go, find dear old mother. I’ll be here.”

“You better be.” And with that, she swished out of the room, leaving two nervous teenage boys in her wake. Neither moved, unless you counted Aziraphale’s restless fidgeting. Crowley could tell he had never been in the presence of royalty before, but he himself was still trying to absorb the reality of what had just walked into the room.

The physical fidgeting eventually evolved into vocal fidgeting

“Um, right. So I thought,” he stepped forward and placed his bag on the desk, “we could start by taking a look at what you already know.”

Crowley blinked out of his revery. “What I already know?” The blond was taking papers out of his bag and placing them carefully on the desk. “You’re going to quiz me?”

“Not in so much. I just need to know where to start.”

“How bout you start at the beginning?” he grumbled.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Oh, uh…” Crowley wracked his brain for something even remotely more clever to say. Then a thought crossed his mind and his signature smirk finally returned. “I don’t know about what I do know, but I can tell you what I don’t.”

Aziraphale looked up from shuffling his papers, pale eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“I don’t know  _ anything _ about my new tutor.” He flashed his teeth in a grin. “Nothing at all.”

“Me?” Aziraphale’s voice came out in a squeak.

“You are my new tutor, aren’t you?”

“Well, I mean, yes, I am, I suppose, but, um… why do you want to know about me?”

_ Because you’re fascinating and different and captivating like no I’ve ever met before _ . “I deserve to know who’s going to be teaching me, don’t I?”

“I… suppose so.” Aziraphale stood there for a moment, hesitant. Then, looking as if he had decided something, he glanced around, found a second chair sitting against the wall, and pulled it toward the desk before taking a seat. Manicured hands were placed primly on cream colored knees, and once settled, Aziraphale looked up at the prince expectantly. “Well? What do you want to know?”

Crowley thought on that for a minute. What  _ did _ he want to know? Theoretically he could ask anything, being the prince and all, but he felt like if he made a wrong move, the other man would retreat into some kind of shell. Time to tread carefully. “What’s your favorite plant?”

“My- what?”

“Favorite plant. You know, those green things that grow outside.”

“I’m familiar with the concept, thank you.” 

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“I-” Aziraphale hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t have an answer, it was that he was reluctant to give it to the prince. But he couldn’t very well  _ ignore  _ him. “Fruit trees. My favorite plants are fruit trees.” The following smirk made Aziraphale’s stomach drop. Had he said the wrong thing?

“That’s more than one plant, angel. You have to pick one.”

Something flashed in the tutor’s eyes. “What did you just call me?”

Crowley really,  _ really _ hoped that his face hadn’t gone as white as it felt like it had. “You expect me to remember ‘Aziraphale’? Nuh uh. Too long. And you’re named after an Angel, aren’t you?” Crowley had no idea if that was true, but he was desperate for an explanation that wasn’t  _ I didn’t learn your name two months ago so I started calling you angel in my head. _ “Angel’s much easier.”

Aziraphale could have pointed out that Crowley had, in fact, just remembered his name correctly right then, but he was preoccupied thinking about how this was the second time someone had called him ‘angel’. It was an odd coincidence, one he wasn’t quite sure what to do with. While it was true that he was named for an angel, Aziraphale was too obscure a figure for anyone to have recognized at any other point in his life. Although he supposed he couldn’t underestimate a prince’s education. Surely he would be well-versed in little-known facts. Maybe that’s why he was asking about plant opinions. “I like pears.”

The smirk morphed into a grin. “The tree or the fruit?”

“Both, I suppose. Can’t really have the fruit without the tree, can you?”

“Guess not. I like fruit trees too, although I’m fonder of apples than pears.”

“Do you have orchards on the grounds?” Aziraphale knew there were acres of grounds within the palace gates but hadn’t a clue as to what might be on them.

Crowley sat up a little straighter. “Um, no, no orchards, but there’s a few free-standing trees in the gardens. The gardeners used to take me out to pick the fruit when I was little, before my- well, before everyone decided I needed to spend all my time in here.” He swept an arm around the small study. “Used to know how to make apple strudels, but… it’s been a while.”

Crowley was clearly trying to keep his tone casual but Aziraphale knew better. Suddenly, instead of being seated across from a prince, all he could see was a seventeen-year-old boy who had spent most of his life in isolation. In his mind’s eye, Aziraphale saw a little red-haired boy trying to reach the branches of an apple tree, standing in a kitchen covered in flour and laughing… wearing black as he watched his father get carried away. Had this person had a childhood at all? Did the prince have any friend’s his age other than Anathema? How many times had he even been off the palace grounds? 

“You know, if you’re going to be interrogating me, it’s only fair that I get to ask a few questions of my own.”

Crowley briefly raised his eyebrows, then gave a shrug and a small sniff. “Sure, what do you want to know?”

“What’s your favorite subject?”

Crowley blinked behind his glasses. “Um, astronomy. If I had to pick.”

“May I ask why?”

A crease appeared between Crowley’s eyebrows and he leaned forward on the desk. Aziraphale wondered what he would have seen if the other took off the glasses. Whatever look it may have been, the tutor could tell it was intense. “You really wanna know?”

“Of course. That’s why I asked.” Confusion? Suspicion? Maybe even disbelief? He couldn’t tell. 

“You have your prince in front of you, at your mercy-” Aziraphale almost choked at the quiet voice in his head that responded with  _ I wish _ . “-and you want to know why I like the stars?”

Trying not to reel from his own invasive thoughts, Aziraphale responded, “Well, yes, I do. But to be fair, the subject of astronomy covers more than just the stars. What about the moon? Or the sun?”

Crowley shrugged again. “Moon’s nice, but s’hard to see the stars when s’too bright. And I like the stars cause…” He opened and closed his mouth before continuing, “they’re paradoxical.” “Paradoxical?”

“Yeah. They make you feel infinite and finite. They’re fixed but moving, dark but bright, close but an eternity away. When you look at the night sky, it’s like all time has stopped, but also like you’re seeing the entirety of history at once. Nothing else in the world is so against itself in the most harmonious way, to make a prince feel alone and yet a part of everything all at the same time.” Crowley turned to see blue eyes slightly widened at him. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, yeah. That’s why I like the stars.”

“I think anyone would be fond of the stars if they saw them the way you did.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Aziraphale smiled. “And what about the sun?”

“Sun’s just a prick.”

Aziraphale really did choke this time. Through his coughing, he managed to get out a “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. A right arse if you ask me, shining down blindingly all day, shriveling up crops, giving people sunburns. Just rude.”

Aziraphale let out a small chuckle in spite of himself and Crowley couldn’t help but respond with a grin. All of his other tutors would have launched into a lecture by now. Instead, Aziraphale asked, “Is that why all the curtains are drawn? Your animosity towards the sun?”

Crowley’s grin faltered. “Uh, kinda.” He tapped a finger against the side of his glasses. “Light sensitivity. Too much gives me migraines.”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Is it dark enough in here?” Crowley hated when people fretted over him, but somehow, when the angel did it, it was endearing. 

“I’m fine. The curtains are probably unnecessary anyway, the glasses do all the work. The staff just likes to coddle.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Because I could put out the lights-”

“It’s fine-”

“It really would be no trouble-”

“It’s  _ fine _ -”

“Why don’t I just-”

“ _ Angel _ .” Aziraphale stopped half-risen from his chair, staring at Crowley who had ripped off his glasses. “See? I’m fine. It’s plenty dark in here. So stop worrying, ok?”

Aziraphale swallowed, then sat back down with a small nod. “Why don’t we get started then.”

His brain went on tutor-autopilot as he pulled his astronomy notes from his bag along with the book. “Might as well start with something you like,” he heard himself say. The other slid his glasses back up his nose and nodded.

Aziraphale could accept that there were two people in the world that deemed it appropriate to call him angel. It was a stretch, but it seemed more likely than the alternative. But Aziraphale knew, deep down, that there wasn’t another pair of eyes like that in the world, let alone in the same city. Irises of the warmest, brightest honey, eyes that held such expression, that shared so much even when their owner’s face was half-covered with a scarf.

Eyes that saw an idiot that gave away his coat in the freezing cold and decided that he was an angel.

This job was going to be a lot more interesting than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this all while on costume crew, so hopefully it's cohesive. I'm still not 100% sure where this is going, but I like it too much to just drop it, so hopefully it won't be too long until the next update.  
> Kudos and comments are the best! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? You mean she's not dead? I'm not! Just turns out that it's difficult to get a theatre degree when everything's online and that isolation depression is a bitch. But! I'm back! I apologize for the surprise hiatus. I hope this was worth the wait, and I promise the next one won't take *checks watch* three months. Probably. Enjoy!

God, he was such an _idiot_. 

Crowley didn’t show anyone his eyes, except Anathema and _very_ occasionally his mother, and here he was, flashing them at this man upon first acquaintance, (well, first acquaintance as Prince Crowley, anyway), providing him with the one solid connection to Anthony. Like a complete idiot.

At the very least, Aziraphale didn’t seem to recognize him from their brief previous interaction. If it got out that he was roaming town at night under an assumed name, he’d be lucky to see the light of day before his birthday. 

“Did he break you?” Crowley flinched. Anathema was looking at him with poorly disguised amusement, one eyebrow raised quizzically and arms crossed over her chest. “You’ve been staring at that wall since I walked in. Maybe five minutes ago. He wasn’t that ruthless, was he?”

Aziraphale? Ruthless? He probably wasn’t capable of it. “I fucked up.”

Anathema’s arms and expression dropped. “Crowley, you promised-”

“No, no, Anathema… I _fucked up_.” His voice was scratchy, and his tone was utterly lost. “I don’t know what to do, Ana.”

Anathema hadn’t heard his voice like this in _years_. Even when Crowley had no idea what he was doing, he knew how to act like he did. No one in the entire kingdom could bullshit like the Prince could bullshit. If he had allowed himself to get this thrown off… 

Anathema pulled the extra chair up to the desk and grabbed her friend’s hands. Her voice was soft, as if speaking to a frightened animal. “What happened?”

Crowley swallowed, sniffed, gave a small cough, opened and closed his mouth, ran a hand through his hair before putting it back in Anathema’s. Took a deep breath. “You… you remember how I told you about when I went out a couple months ago?”

Anathema scrunched her nose. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Crowley.”

He took back one of his hands and rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “The time I met that guy on the walk back? With the coat?”

“Yes, Crowley, you told me about your _angel_ , what does that have- oh.” Crowley still had his fingers rubbing circles into his eyelids, but he could just imagine the way her eyes grew as round as her glasses. She was as quick as she was nosy. “ _Oh_ .” She looked over her shoulder as if expecting the subject of their conversation to be peaking through the door or peering through the window, then leaned back across the desk and hissed, “That was _him?_ ”

Crowley nodded, the heels of his hands now pressing so firmly into his eye sockets he saw stars. The same stars he had talked to Aziraphale about just a couple of hours earlier. The same stars that had stubbornly twinkled behind his blond head when they first met. Damn, this was not helping. “But that’s not the problem. Well, not the whole problem.”

“Does it really have to be a problem? You’ve been moaning about him for weeks.”

“I have not been _moaning_.”

“You were _absolutely_ -”

“I showed him my eyes.” At the following silence, Crowley finally dropped his hands with a long inhale through his nose, blinking at his friend as the stars slowly swirled away. His glasses fell clumsily back into place and he pushed them firmly up the bridge of his nose. Some tiny strangled voice in the back corner of Crowley’s brain was pointing out that no amount of eye-hiding would undue his earlier lapse in judgement. A slightly more cheerful voice, (or maybe ‘less despondent’ would be a more accurate description), pointed out that he should pay attention to any reactions his stupidity caused to cross Anathema’s face. Whatever expressions she made wouldn’t make the mistake worth whatever tempest was starting to pick up in his brain, but maybe they could take some bite out of the winds. He stopped futzing with the dark glasses and gave his friend his attention, hands finding their way back to hers.

The slackness of Anathema’s jaw was undeniably amusing, but it didn’t settle his tempest-brain nearly as much as the less-dejected voice had hoped. “Did you really?” she eventually asked, voice just above a whisper. 

“Yeah.” Crowley blew out his cheeks, trying to settle his thoughts just enough to allow the many voices to settle into some sense of coherence. “If I run into him again as Anthony, there’s no way he won’t recognize me.” _And no way he won’t be able to see straight through me._

Anathema gave the Prince’s hands a light squeeze, allowing her surprise to turn into soft amusement. “Well, that can be solved by not going back to where you saw him. Or, God forbid, not going out again at all.” The glare she received told Anathema just what Crowley thought of that idea. “Yeah, yeah, fine. And yes, this is potentially problematic, but, well…” Anathema's shrug would look apologetic if she were a better actor, “I trust him.”

“You trust him.”

“Yes, I do.” There was no sarcasm, nor uncertainty in her voice. She was simply stating a fact. 

“But you talked to him for five minutes.”

The smile finally started tilting towards a smirk. “So did you.”

Crowley honestly didn’t know what to say to that. Opening and closing his mouth like a catfish didn’t seem to help bring anything to mind. She was right. 

Anathema rolled her eyes and continued. “I could have been with him one minute and I still would have trusted him. You can tell from his-”

“I swear, Ana, if you say the word ‘aura’ I will walk out of this room.”

Anathema let out a slighted huff but didn’t press. “All I’m saying is, of all the people to know about what you get up to, I think he may be the safest. Agreed?” Crowley considered that for a moment, then conceded with a small nod. “Ok. Are you feeling better now?” The prince merely shrugged, but his protruding bottom lip was a bit too dramatic to be fully believable. “Excellent. Now, can we please address the superb poetic irony that is you, after all these schemey years, obtaining a massive crush on your new tutor?”

With a loud scoff, Crowley yanked his hands away from his friend, a look of utter indignation completely failing to distract from his burning cheeks. “I never said anything about-”

“Weeks, Crowley. _Weeks_ you have been waxing poetic about this man.”

“I don’t _wax-_ ”

“And now he’s been brought to you out of the blue?” Crowley rolled his eyes. “That can’t be a coincidence. It’s fate.”

“I said no-”

“You said no auras. You said nothing about fate. And you know I’m right.”

Crowley managed to even more dramatically sprawl over his chair, letting out an agonized moan. “It is not fate.”

But Anathema would not be swayed. She leaned forward imploringly, nimble hands pressed to the shiny mahogany surface of the desk. “It is too. There’s no way this wasn’t meant to happen. You have this interaction with a beautiful and kind man-”

“I _never_ used those words.”

“-and he comes back two months later to teach you? An occupation that requires the two of you to be alone for multiple hours, multiple days a week?” She looked at him, mocking disbelief on her face. “ _Please_. I know fate when I see it. And like I said,” a sharp grin crossed her face and Crowley found himself suppressing a shudder, “poetic irony.” She cocked an eyebrow. “No flirting your way out of this one, buddy. I know you. If you tried, you’d spontaneously combust.”

Crowley’s face looked like he was making a good effort of doing just that. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m _right_.”

There was a loud scraping as the prince abruptly stood up. “I don’t have to listen to this. I’m going for a walk.” And with that, he sauntered out the door as fast as his swaying hips could take him, ignoring the shouts that followed him down the hallway.

“You can’t run! Fate’s comin’ for you, baby!”

* * *

Crowley had always loved the gardens. Although the staff had stopped showing him around when they knew he was supposed to be studying, they never quite managed to keep him out. Gravel crunched under his boots as he walked along the garden path. The golden afternoon sunlight glittered through the willow branches to the right, a soft breeze carrying the smell of the well-tended flowers from the left. It was a nice day, and the push and pull of the surrounding flora helped settle the prince’s frazzled nerves.

Ahead was a fork. The left, he knew, would lead him down to the pond and the ducks that lived on it. He used to like going down there and pelting the water fowl with stale crusts stolen from the kitchen, until one day when he made the mistake of hitting a goose. After what the staff affectionately and secretly called The Great Wild Goose Chase, Crowley was much nicer with his crusts, and if he spotted a single demon bird on the water, he refused to go down at all.

But on this golden afternoon, as with many others, the Prince’s feet took him right and towards the small clearing where he knew the apple tree to stand. 

It was an old tree, one of the oldest on the grounds. He had asked one of the gardeners about it when he was young, and she had told him that his many times great grandfather, the first king to live in this palace, had also loved apples, just like Crowley, and had one tree specially planted for him to enjoy. Five-year-old Crowley had found this a rather boring story, but he had liked that he had something in common with his ancestor, even if it was something so mundane. His father hadn’t paid him much attention, even when he was alive. Not that he was a terrible king, or even a terrible father, but he certainly didn’t have the time to learn about the kind of things that his son enjoyed, or share any of his own joys. His mother wasn’t much better, and any interests they did share with each other they certainly didn’t have in common. 

But Aziraphale had said that he liked fruit trees. Not only had he answered the question, but he hadn’t said roses or oaks or - Crowley cringed - hellebore, the official plant of the kingdom. Not that it wasn’t an interesting enough plant in its own right, but Crowley was so tired of hearing that answer. 

No, Aziraphale liked fruit trees. _I like pears_. Crowley thought back to that night in the pub, to watching Aziraphale eat with such joy, and thought that his answer made sense. He would probably love any plant that produced something delicious. Something about the man gave Crowley the feeling that he wouldn’t be capable of growing a weed. 

_But if he could_ , his head supplied, _if he could,_ _what would he grow? Would he have a vegetable garden? Or even an herb garden? Would he have a pear tree of his own to pick fresh fruit from and sit under? Would he go out every Autumn with a basket, bite into the ripe fruit, juice running down his chin and fingers? Would it be sticky, and sweet? Could I follow the trail of it with my tongue all the way down-_

His train of thought was, blessedly, interrupted by the sight of the tree itself. The path to the clearing was not short, and yet Crowley’s feet had dutifully carried him there while his brain had been preoccupied.

Crowley shook himself, slightly mortified at the path his mind had started skipping down. His feet completed their intention, bringing the Prince to lean against the tree he had set out to see in the first place. He tried to concentrate on the poking of rough bark against his back, on the music of leaves in the wind, on the tiny green beads that would grow into his favorite fruit in no time at all. He tried to concentrate on his tree, and not on golden curls, and bright blue eyes, and pink plush lips, and soft hands that would certainly feel fantastic in his own and perhaps on-

The murmur of approaching voices succeeded where the tree did not. Crowley barely managed to slow his erratic heartbeat and force the blush from his cheeks before a young boy came crashing through the bushes with all the grace and charm of an eleven-year-old who knew exactly what he was doing. He was shortly followed by a second, much less graceful boy who would have tripped and fallen directly onto his pale face if it weren’t for the first boy’s convenient placing. Instead, the second boy collided with the first and both boys stumbled a bit further into the clearing. 

“Careful, Warlock. I told you, the vines in this forest are alive. They’ll make a grab for your feet.”

The second boy, Warlock, attempted to glare at the first, but the effect was more in the vicinity of a pout. The smirs of dirt on his face stood out starkly against his pale skin, and his long dark hair was partially held back by a silk ribbon that was clearly fighting a losing battle. Crowley could see, at least, that his clothes seemed mostly unharmed. The palace staff would not envy the chance to get stains out of velvet and lace _again_ . “I _was_ watching. I didn’t trip, I just…” He searched for an explanation that wasn’t _my stupid fancy shoes got caught on something again_. “There was something following us. It sounded big and, um, scaly, so I wanted to get us both to safety.”

The first boy seemed to take a moment to think about this before giving a short nod that made his chestnut curls bob. “Good thinking.” His skin was darker than Warlock’s, almost gold, a clear sign of years spent outside in the gardens, but his cheeks glowed beneath the freckles with a youth that no one had yet been able to take away from him. There wasn’t a single sign of dirt adorning his features in direct contrast to his simple linen shirt and wool breaches. His feet, Crowley noticed with a combination of exasperation and admiration, were bare. He had been told more times than either could count that walking around in the gardens without his sturdy work boots was a recipe for disaster. He never listened, and the disaster had yet to pass.

Crowley watched the two boys from his spot in the shade under the apple tree, a small but warm smile pulling at his cheeks.

“What do you think it could have been?” asked the first boy, looking behind his friend back from where they came.

“I don’t know, but it sounded close. It was rustling against the leaves, you know?”

The first boy nodded sagely. “Hm. Big and scaly, you said?” The responding nod liberated another lock of hair from the silk ribbon.

“It sounds to me like you two were being chased by a basilisk.”

Both boys spun around, their faces breaking into identical cheek-splitting grins. “Crowley!”

“Adam, does your mum know that you’re running around without your boots again?”

Adam didn’t even deign to look ashamed. His grin quirked to the side, a sliver of mischief glimmering from behind his lips and in the shine of his blue eyes. “She knows I left the house with them. But I can’t be expected to explore the jungles of the rainforest without being able to feel it, can I?” Crowley just shook his head, but he couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle.

Behind Adam, Warlock was pouting down at his own shiny feet. “I wish I could feel the rainforest, but the maid said if I got any more runs in my stupid stockings she would tell Father where I run off to.”

Crowley grimaced and Adam’s cheeky grin dimmed. They all knew that conversation would not end well. “Well, if Adam isn’t going to wear his boots, maybe he’d let you borrow them, Warlock. Could make it easier to get away from whatever’s chasing you.” Crowley knew that the boy couldn’t actually see the wink, but he was confident that the sentiment was passed nonetheless. 

Adam perked back up at the mention of the beast. “You said it was a basilisk! Is that a giant snake or something?”

“It is, but s’way more dangerous than just a giant snake.”

Crowley spent the rest of the afternoon hunting down the basilisk through the great rainforest. Fortunately, when he was about Adam and Warlock’s age, he had managed to convince the palace staff to allow him to decide his own wardrobe, which included his shoes. His sensible yet stylish snakeskin boots, (which were not actually snakeskin but beautifully patterned leather, not that he would ever tell anyone that), were perfect for clambering around the grounds with two rowdy preteens. He allowed them to fill him in on how their adventure had been going before stumbling on the prince-and-apple-tree-occupied clearing. Apparently, they had been in search of a rare bird of paradise to add to their book, but a group of selfish pirates were trying to get to it first to foil their plans and make a coat out of the bird’s beautiful plumage. In the process of this adventure, Adam’s boots had disappeared into quicksand (ah, that’s where they’d gone), they had found, and lost, a machete (stick), Warlock had gotten into a fight with a baboon (hence the mud), and they had lost their pen, forcing them to write in their book with their own spit which, Adam informed Crowley, could be used as invisible ink, just like lemon juice. (Crolwey wasn’t sure about this last one. He made a mental note to try it out himself.) By the time the sky started hinting at evening, the group had managed to track down the deadly basilisk and shrink it into a measly garter snake, and Crowley had suggested some of his own additions to their book, an amateurly yet carefully bound bundle of parchment that Crowley had a feeling Warlock had stolen and made himself.

They made their way to the edge of the garden just as the first star appeared. Crowley and Warlock waved goodbye to Adam, who promised that he would fill in Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale on today’s adventure so that they could join next time. They both watched his curls bounce across the grounds for a bit before turning towards the palace.

Warlock was oddly silent. Not that it was odd for him to be silent, especially without his best friend around, but this particular silence was odd. It was a silence that was trying not to be a silence, but didn’t know how to go about it. Crowley figured he would give it a nudge. “You ok, Warlock?”

“Hm.” 

Alright, maybe more than a nudge. “You look like you’re thinking pretty hard over there. Anything you wanna share?”

"How do you do it?" 

Crowley quirked a red eyebrow. "Do what?" 

Warlock gestured broadly at the approaching palace. "Deal with it. All of it. The rules, the people... everything."

Crowley slowed to a stop, brow pinched. Warlock stood next to him, waiting for an answer as patiently as an eleven-year-old could. Finally, the prince looked down at the young noble with a resigned sigh. "Do you want the answer I should give you, or do you want the truth?"

“They’re different?”

“Aren’t they always?”

This was accepted with a tilt of Warlock’s head. He gave the older boy an appraising look. “Both.”

Crowley puffed out his cheeks in that way that Anathema said made him look like a pufferfish. “Well, what I should say is that you’ll get used to it. That all of the things you have to deal with are for your own good, and that you’ll understand them by the time you have to give them to your kids.”

“And the truth?”

“The truth is that it’s all rubbish. The rules exist because they were the rules that existed when our parents and grandparents were kids, and that’s about as much thought as goes into it. I deal with it by breaking the rules where I can, gaining control where I can get it. I pick out my own clothes, I chase off the people I don’t like, and when I’m feeling truly suffocated, I sneak out. Go mingle with the common man. Wear a cloak with patches. Eat something that wasn’t served on silver. Basically,” he looked down at Warlock with a smirk, “I escape into the gardens to play with my not-noble friends. It’s just that I have to go a little farther than the palace grounds for my adventures.”

This answer didn’t seem to be exactly what Warlock was hoping for, but he nodded all the same, his hair curtaining across his cheeks. It was then that Crowley noticed the silk ribbon had disappeared somewhere along the way during the day’s adventure. “Come here.”

The Prince pulled the little noble in front of him and went about pulling his hair into a ponytail, tying it off with a ribbon pulled from his own pocket. Warlock was silent as Crowley worked, and when he patted his shoulder to signal that all dark hair was sufficiently tied back, the boy didn’t turn around, but stayed looking down at his stupid shoes. 

“Does it get easier?” His voice was so small that Crolwey wouldn’t have caught it if he weren’t leaning in close. The Prince looked at the sky as if the stars would write out the proper thing to say in this kind of situation. Alas, they were as beautifully enigmatic as always. 

Crowley gave Warlock’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll let you know. Now let’s get you back up to your room before they send out the search party.”

* * *

Warlock was safely returned to his family’s quarters in the visitor’s wing. The poor maid didn’t even flinch at the state of the boy’s face or shoes, just briefly glanced up as if she, too, were looking for answers in the stars. Crowley made his way back to his own quarters, instructing a passing hall boy to send a sandwich up for his supper. The servant simply nodded and made his way to the kitchens. It was fairly normal for the Prince to retire early due to his self-proclaimed infatuation with sleep, and the staff were very much accustomed to sending up something small for him to nibble on before he became dead to the world for twelve hours.

Except that Crowley was finding that extremely difficult at present. He had eaten his ham and swiss, bathed, loosely braided his hair, pulled on his black silk pajamas, slipped between his fine cotton sheets and feather duvet, and yet sleep evaded him. His mind had redacted all of the day’s distracting progress, circling his train of thought all the way back to where it had been when he stepped into the apple tree’s clearing; to images of cherubic cheeks and intelligent eyes, soft hands and inviting lips and a softness that Crowley wanted to bask in, to echoes of _dear_ and _I like pears_ and _I gave it away_. His imagination traipsed through every nice and not so nice thing that might come out of that mouth, every expression that might cross those features, every skill those fingers might have. Crowley tossed and turned but found very little comfort- or relief.

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley would never actually wear the skin of his brethren, prove me wrong.
> 
> I have the next few chapters outlined and I have a pretty good idea as to where this fic is going, so progress shall be made. I'm not dropping it, I promise! I'm not expecting this to be a chonky boy, so 10 chapter ballpark? Maybe? We'll see. Comments and kudos give me life <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter so far, but we're getting into plot! Can I get a wahoo?

Aziraphale felt as if it had been weeks since he last stepped foot in the beautiful campus library, when in reality it had only been a couple of days. Throughout his entire time at the university, the blond hadn’t gone a single day, aside from visits home, without dropping in at least briefly to take in the polished shelves, the arched ceiling, the towering windows. More than his own lodgings, the library felt like home.

Which is why any intrusions were especially irritating. 

“Aziraphale!” The booming voice echoed through the quiet space, making multiple pairs of shoulders jump, but none more so than those belonging to the student being called for. With horror, Aziraphale looked up to see Professor Gabriel marching his way over, smile unnaturally white and disconcertingly wide. Aziraphale was usually very careful about finding a spot amongst the stacks where he would be able to see who entered the library long before they would have the chance to spot him. Alas, his separation evidently had dulled his sense.

“Professor,” he responded in a much quieter voice, tossing apologetic looks every which way as the hulk of a man approached. “I’m rather busy at the moment. Is this important?”

“Wouldn’t have come in here to find you if it wasn’t.” All apologetic glances were harshly returned with pointed glares.

Books and papers were already being fit carefully in the worn leather satchel. “Why don’t we find a more private place to speak, then.” Better they head out now before the other students discovered a quiet enough way to commit murder.

Gabriel was already marching back towards the door. For an educator, he had very little regard for the space. The only books he would ever need to consult were the law volumes carefully displayed behind his desk in his office. Anything else was just fluff. 

They made their way to the law building, Gabriel’s stride long and quick, leaving Aziraphale huffing after him, still trying to close his over-packed bag. By the time the oak door of the office was closed behind him, Aziraphale was trying desperately to get his breathing under control. He didn’t want to invite-

“You alright there, champ?”

Aziraphale breathed carefully through his nose. “Perfectly.”

“You know, you should really consider spending more time on your feet and less time sitting around studying and, well…” He gestured towards the student’s rounded middle. “You can stand to lose the gut, Aziraphale.” There was a beat, then he gave his student what he must have thought was a teasing smile. “Get it? Stand to lose? That’s funny.”

“Yes, very clever. I’ll keep that in mind.” Aziraphale desperately wanted to take a seat in the straight-backed wooden chair facing the nearly empty oak desk, but Gabriel had yet to take his own slightly higher-backed yet no-less-wooden seat. Hopefully this would be a quick talk.

“So, I’ve heard you’ve been hired on as the new royal tutor for the Prince.”

Aziraphale paused. All of his lecturers, including Gabriel, already knew this, having been informed of the reason for his absence the day before. (With any other student, this would have been unnecessary, but Aziraphale hadn’t missed a single lecture throughout his entire academic career. Administration didn’t want anyone assuming he had died.) So it wasn’t surprising that Gabriel had this information. What was more surprising, and possibly concerning, was his desire to discuss this fact.

Aziraphale decided to proceed with caution. “Yes, yesterday was my first day.”

This response earned a small nod and what was perhaps supposed to be a comforting smile? (It was always difficult deciphering the intention of Gabriel’s smiles through the thin layer of slime that accompanied each one.) “You know, Aziraphale, you’ve been presented with a very unique opportunity here.”

This did not help settle any confusion. Aziraphale’s first thought was the royal library, but the idea of Gabriel being interested in such a thing was laughable.

Gabriel continued, turning to browse his law volumes. “Our Kingdom knows very little about our future King, don’t you think? If it weren’t for his rare and brief public appearances, we wouldn’t even know what he looked like.” Aziraphale couldn’t tell if the professor was perusing his books for dramatic effect or if he was actually looking for something. “We’ve never even heard him speak. In fact,” His finger paused, (ah, actually looking for something), then began tugging a particularly thick tome from the shelf. Aziraphale winced. The poor thing’s binding would never survive if that was how Gabriel removed it from its spot. “no one outside of the palace is allowed to interact with the boy. No one… except his tutor.” Gabriel turned back to face Aziraphale and slammed the book on his desk with a loud  _ bang _ . “That’s you.”

Aziraphale did his best not to flinch. “Yes. And I take that responsibility very seriously.”

Gabriel smiled at him, and Aziraphale couldn’t even tell what this one was meant to be. It was pure slime. “You’ve had a day to meet him. What do you think?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss-”

“Is he ready? Will he be a good ruler? Will he even be a competent one?”

“That’s not for me to decide.”

“Come on, Aziraphale! You’re a smart cookie! Wouldn’t have gotten the position otherwise.” Was there a trace of bitterness in his tone? “Surely you have a good idea of if he’s capable or not?”

Aziraphale did not like where this conversation was going. “That’s not something I can discern from a single lesson, and he has quite some time to improve.”

Gabriel’s eyes flashed and his smile turned sharp. Aziraphale tried not to shiver too obviously. “So he needs to improve. Not quite kingly material, is he?”

The blond found himself growing very weary of this conversation. “What are you trying to say, Gabriel?” The responding glare felt like a blade to the throat. “Professor,” he corrected quickly.

“My point is, little Aziraphale, that now is the perfect time to get in.”

“In? In where?”

Gabriel tapped a thick finger against his temple. “Into the Prince’s head.”

Aziraphale froze, all fidgeting halted, eyes wide and unblinking. Gabriel, exhibiting an amount of patience Aziraphale previously thought him incapable of, waited for this statement to sink in. They both stood there, one still, one waiting, a desk and a book filling the gap between them. Aziraphale’s eyes began to water, so he blinked. His throat began to stick, so he swallowed. His head began to hurt, so he breathed. “What are you suggesting?”

“Oh, Aziraphale. I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply pointing something out.” He rounded his desk to stand next to his bemused pupil, clapping a large hand on his soft shoulder. Aziraphale’s feet throbbed. “This Kingdom has been rulerless for over a decade.”

“That’s not true. Queen Beelzebub-”

“Is a woman. Nothing more than a placeholder. Hardly capable of leading a Kingdom as grand as this one. It is called a  _ King _ dom, afterall.”

Aziraphale wanted to argue. He wanted to point out all of the things that had changed in the last decade. He wanted to talk about the improvements the Queen had made in such a short amount of time. He wanted to remind his Professor of how involved she had been even before her husband’s death. He wanted to refute, but his tongue was stuck in his throat. “This is the Kingdom the Prince will be inheriting. The Prince who, from the looks of it, wouldn’t even be capable of assuming rule over a  _ competently _ lead Kingdom.”

“Are you saying you want me to influence him? Turn him into nothing more than a figurehead?”

Gabriel scrunched his nose, giving Aziraphale’s shoulder a painful squeeze. “Influence has such…  _ complicated _ connotations. Think of it more as… guidance. A helping hand.”

Aziraphale tried to swallow but his tongue was still in the way. He took a deep breath, then tried again, this time with slightly more success. His voice came out raspy. “And you want me to be the one to guide him?”

The following chuckle slipped down the blond’s collar like snow, rolling down his spine like a threat. “Aziraphale, Azirapahle,” and the man had never heard so much condescension pumped into his name, “who do you think would be more fit to know what’s best for his people?” Gabriel blessedly released the now bruised shoulder, stepping slowly back to his side of the desk, at last taking a seat in his wooden throne. Aziraphale did not follow suit. “A child who has no self control,” another glance at his soft waist, “and hasn’t even completed his education yet, or a man who knows this land’s laws inside and out, who knows how this world works?” A broad palm came down to rest on the nearly forgotten book. It reminded Aziraphale strangely of a man taking oath. 

By some miracle, Aziraphale was able to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Why not the man who has a right to the throne?”

Gabriel looked at him as if he were the most naive poor little lamb that the professor had ever laid eyes on. Like a shepherd looking at the member of his flock that didn’t know to run from the wolf. “That ‘man’,” his fingers curled into quotes, sarcasm dripping from his nails and lips, “has never stepped foot out of the palace walls. Has never spoken to our people or seen our lands. He sends every tutor away after less than a month so he can spend more time sucking on his silver spoon and chasing after the maids. He doesn’t even have the decency to show his face, always hiding behind those childish glasses. He wouldn’t know the first thing about ruling.”

Gabriel’s version of the Prince swaggered over to stand next to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale’s version who loved the stars, who asked about plants, who answered questions. Aziraphale’s version who’s glasses hid sensitive yet beautifully expressive honey eyes. Aziraphale’s version who snuck out of the palace to see his Kingdom, his people, even if he had to hide to do it. Aziraphale’s version, who called him angel.

He didn’t want Gabriel anywhere near his version.

“What do you need from me, then?”

The show of cooperation clearly pleased the man. He shrugged. “Simple. People seem to like you. You’re easy and soft. Unassuming.” Every description felt like a paper cut. “Get him to trust you. You can do that much, can’t you?”

Knowing there was nothing else he could do, Aziraphale gave a terse nod, spun on his heel, and fled the office.

* * *

Something was different today. Crowley was having difficulty figuring out what it was, but there was no denying that there had been a shift. Aziraphale’s voice was still warm, his smile still kind, his hands restless when not being used to point at charts and lists just as they had been two days before. Yet whenever Crowley tried to talk to him as a person rather than just as his tutor, the blond became… hesitant wasn’t the right word. Maybe hesitant’s relative? Or their aggressive neighbor? He couldn’t pinpoint the mood, and every time he thought he almost had it, his tutor would gently steer the subject back to their studies and the name of the change would slip away again. It was infuriating.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was doing his utmost not to panic.

Throughout the entire lesson, he couldn’t shake the sensation of Gabriel’s grip on his shoulder. How was he expected to do his job satisfactorily if he was trying to juggle a second agenda? And how was this fair to Crowley? If he did want help, shouldn’t he be allowed to choose where that help came from? Shouldn’t his trust be given to those who earned it through pure means?

The thing was, though, Aziraphale  _ did _ want Crowley to trust him. Desperately. He wanted the Prince to feel comfortable coming to him for consultation or comfort or company. He wanted to be there, for whatever Crowley may need. Was that dishonest? Was he just opening the door for Crowley to be manipulated? Was this a desire born from his tendency to obey?

These two voices crashed and tumbled together, pushing and pulling, causing waves to splash up against the inside of his skull. But underneath the waves ran an undercurrent, quiet and deep, but persistent, asking another question: Does Gabriel have a point? 

Aziraphale kept his eyes pointed in Crowley’s direction, allowing for the illusion of attentiveness, but his thoughts wandered back to the arguments his professor had made the day before. Although he disagreed with his disapproval of the Queen’s ruling, Aziraphale couldn’t deny that having her in that position had caused unrest in some parts of the Kingdom. Unrest was not an environment anyone wanted to step into. Crowley was young, and not particularly world-weary, no matter how many forays he made out into the surrounding capitol. Aziraphale thought of the rumors he’d heard, tales of armies of tutors filtering through the palace at unprecedented rates all because the Prince was so difficult. But the man in front of him wasn’t difficult. Everything Aziraphale had seen of the Prince showed him to be thoughtful and caring. Playful, but not cruel. Clever in getting what he wanted.

_ What he wanted… _

The entire ocean hushed. The waves stilled until the surface was mirror smooth, leaving room for an entirely new, entirely unexpected thought.

“Crowley.” 

Those tutors wouldn’t have left unless the Prince had  _ wanted _ them to. So why would he want to chase away his teaching? Not just once, but consistently for over a decade?

The prince looked up from where he was scratching through some arithmetic. “Yeah?”

It wasn’t laziness, Aziraphale could already see that. Crowley wanted to learn.

“I have a question for you.”

The thought of him truly finding _every_ _single tutor_ unsatisfactory over the course of his entire adolescence was unlikely at best. But this was more than a dislike for authority.

“Just a second, I’m still working on these ones.”

This was more than a show of cleverness.

“It’s not an arithmetic question.”

This was more even than a statement against an unbalanced education.

“Oh. Curious about me, are you?” 

This was a cry for help.

“Do you want to be King?”

Crowley said nothing for a long moment. His jaw had gone slack and the pencil he’d been writing with was sliding out of his loose grip, drawing a haphazard trail across crooked equations. Aziraphale waited patiently.

On the other side of the table, Crowley was experiencing what he was sure it must feel like to have his brain yanked out and flopped roughly back into place. A necessary action, seeing as his ears were clearly malfunctioning. Some harried assistant was trying to figure out how to make the grey lump fit again, unsure of what connected where. An image of Anathema’s new guard friend frantically digging through a brain manual and pushing things around with a long forefinger seemed to be the only thing Crowley could come up with. Eventually, slowly, Brain Assistant Newt had some success. Functions started returning. There was breathing, then blinking. Hands followed, finding the ability to put down the pencil. Swallowing had a couple false starts before powering back up. Finally, the voice reconnected. It was given a small test to check usefulness and resulted only in a small cough. Some more swallowing, more blinking. Fingers were wiggling, nose was sniffing. Yes, things seemed roughly in order. Go ahead and try that speaking thing again.

“What?” Test two showed some roughness, but results were otherwise positive.

“I asked if you wanted to be King.”

Oh. That is what he said.

“Right.”  _ No, Brain Assistant Newt, we are not going through that again. _ “Right.”

“I’m sorry, I suppose that’s not something you just ask the-”

“No, no.” He had seen right, that first time on the street when he had looked over and seen a halo. He’d been right to call him angel. A true angel, hiding in plain sight. “It’s fine, it’s just… no one’s ever asked me that before.”

“Well that’s a pity, although I can’t say I’m surprised.” And there was that shift again, heavier now than it had been all day. Hesitance and… guilt? That couldn’t be right. Angels couldn’t do anything to feel guilty about. “It’s only that, I can’t seem to come up with a reason why you would work so hard to make yourself unprepared to take the throne, unless you didn’t want to take it in the first place.”

And that was it, wasn’t it? Some small part of him was still holding out hope that if he was enough of a nuisance, enough of a disappointment, they would refuse him what was supposedly his. If he couldn’t deny his crown, he could at least make it so it wasn’t offered to him.

But he’d promised Anathema. He’d promise that he’d try this time. He couldn’t disappoint her.

And, despite all his practice, despite the plan years in the making, despite his desperate desire to dodge the weight of an entire Kingdom… he didn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale either.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. “Of  _ course _ it matters! Whyever should you think that your wants don’t matter?” 

Aziraphale’s indignation was never something Crowley wanted to be faced with, let alone have directed at him. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to ignore the very fetching shade of pink of his tutor’s cheeks in favor of defending himself. “They never have, Aziraphale. I’m lucky I even get to dress myself, and that took years of convincing.” 

It felt like something was stuck in Aziraphale’s throat. He watched as the Prince ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his face before releasing it again. He had the air about him of someone who was trying to explain to a child that the world didn’t work Like That. Aziraphale tried not to let it break his heart.

“It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to rule. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to marry Anathema. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to be treated like a prisoner.”

If he was so against taking this role, maybe he would welcome someone else taking over. Maybe some ‘guidance’ could help loosen the tension in his brow, convince his pinched lips to smirk in the way they so often did. Maybe this could actually be the right thing to do.

Crowley’s chuckle interrupted Aziraphale’s musings. It wasn’t the kind of chuckle that the blond had already started growing accustomed to, the one that reminded him vaguely of the stories his father used to tell him about the fae. No. This one sounded like dead grass being trod underfoot; dry, flat, still. He didn’t flinch, but it was a close thing.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” asked the Prince, and Aziraphale had the distinct impression that he said ‘ironic’ when what he wanted to say was ‘sad’. “Supposed to be the most powerful person in the Kingdom. Have all this control over its people and its lands and everything. And the one thing I’ll never have control over, is my own life.” 

He looked up and oh, how Aziraphale wished he would take off his glasses, let him see those shockingly bright eyes again, let him watch the emotions flicker through them. “And nothing will change when I take over. I’ll still be told where to go, what to say, how many fucking heirs to help produce.” This last statement was followed by a sneer, lips pulled back in disgust and indignation, eyes turned away again to glare at someone far away. Aziraphale flinched at the curse, but now was not the time for corrections in etiquette. “I won’t even get to choose who my advisors are. They’ll be found and assigned for me, because apparently deciding who will assist me on making major, possibly life altering decisions is below my position.”

Advisors. Aziraphale had completely forgotten about advisors. If Gabriel was so set on being a voice for the King, couldn’t he advise?

“How would one go about becoming an advisor, if that was something they wanted to do?”

If Crowley found this an odd question, he didn’t let it show. “Well, it’s tough to become an advisor on purpose. We do that deliberately. You know, so it’s harder for power-hungry people to worm their way in just for the chance to get near the throne. Which I still find incredibly hypocritical, but whatever. Advisors essentially are brought in for their expertise, so it kinda depends on what expertise the King needs at the time.”

“What kind of expertise would the King need?”  _ How often would he need legal help? _ he wanted to ask.  _ Would he ever need my help? _ he was too afraid to wonder.

“Like I said, it depends. A few years ago, for example, when we had the crop shortage? They brought in the most successful farmers from different regions around the kingdom, the head of the capitol’s soup kitchen, and I think there was an economist or something. They helped the Queen figure out how to make the low yield last long enough until the weather picked back up.”

Aziraphale blinked. He remembered the shortage. He’d spent a great deal of those two years wandering the nearby woods, looking for blackberries and checking snares for rabbits. A few months in, new food had started showing up in the markets. Crackers and dried fruits and pickled vegetables that he hadn't recognized. Limits had been put on how much food anyone could buy in one trip. A few months after that, papers had started coming with the food deliveries, recipes and tips on how to stretch certain ingredients, what to make with food just this side of spoiled. New storage methods had started cropping up around town. Everything was done to waste as little food as possible. It wasn’t until the last six months that they were forced to ration. Even in his small southern village, Aziraphale had heard rumors that the palace was rationing as well, eating no more than anyone else in the Kingdom. It was only one example of their Queen’s competence.

"So, they just pick whoever happens to be the best in their field at the time?" 

The question was followed by a string of sounds that were most certainly not words as Crowley tilted his head from side to side. "Not really sure about the process. Like I said, not my job. You could probably ask Anathema, she's supposed to be a bit more involved in all that. And I mean, at least I know she won't fuck me over." His brows crinkled, but the scowl paired with it was a much more welcome version. "Well, I don't think she would. She can be kind of a shit sometimes but at least she takes this stuff seriously." 

"It's good that you have her." It was more than Aziraphale could ever hope to have.

A strange look passed over Crowley's features, like he wanted to say something but knew better. He returned to his default smirk. "Yeah, she's great."

A gentle quiet settled back over the two. Crowley continued to scratch away at his equations and Aziraphale sat and contemplated. He knew that he was in the minority when it came to having freedom to choose his career, that his father was one of few who listened to his child, who wanted the best for him. But to grow up in an environment where even  _ expressing _ those wants felt impossible, he couldn’t imagine.

Oh, wait.

“Crowley, what do you want?”

The Prince’s head snapped up to look at his tutor, all wide eyes and open expression, curls framing his round cheeks.  _ To kiss you _ , his mind supplied.  _ To crawl over this desk and kiss you senseless and sit in your lap and put my hands on you and feel your hands on me and maybe show you to my quarters and see what your curls look like against my dark sheets. _ He really, really hoped the blond couldn’t see the blush he could feel burning down his neck. After successfully keeping himself from swallowing his tongue, he allowed his mouth to make words. “What do I want?”

“Yes. You’ve done a great deal of expressing what it is that you don’t want, but I didn’t hear you say what you  _ do _ want.” Aziraphale didn’t know why he was asking. He didn’t know what he hoped the Prince would say. What could a Prince possibly want that he would be able to give?

“Oh. I guess I didn’t say.” He had been taught not to, a long time ago. The only one who ever asked was Anathema, and it was usually more in context of lunch plans. Anathema, and strange men in dark rooms who thought his name was Anthony. “Kind of a loaded question, don’t you think?” 

“I think you’re avoiding answering it.”

_ Maybe because I’m trying to think of an answer that doesn’t include you. _ “It’s not a question I’m used to being asked.” 

The blue eyes softened, followed by a tentative smile. “Then I will endeavor to amend that fact as best I can.” 

And wouldn’t that be something, to have this angel ask after his desires not once, but regularly. Regularly enough for him to get used to it. Maybe regularly enough for him to become brave enough to answer truthfully. “And I will endeavor to, one day, have an answer.”

Crowley turned back to his work. He had been just about done and used his pencil to scribble the last string of numbers on the page. “I’m finished with this, by the way.”

Aziraphale took the paper handed to him and glanced it over. His eyebrows slowly rose, threatening to disappear into his cloud of curls. “Crowley… this is quite advanced.” His head swiveled between the paper and the book propped open on his lap. “I told you that you could start with some simple formulas.”

“Yeah, well,” the Prince scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish, “this is pretty simple for me.”

His tutor finally tore his eyes from the numbers and blinked up at his student. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help in this regard. This is the one subject I’ve always had trouble with.” He glanced back down at Crowley’s chicken scratch handwriting, a characteristic that Aziraphale was sure was both purposeful and spiteful, before returning his attention to the Prince. “Who taught you this?”

The neck-scratching was joined by some cheek-reddening, and the blond couldn’t help but think that it was rather adorable. “Um, me? I guess? I found some books in the library when I was twelve or so and kind of, just, started learning it that way. Didn’t keep any one else around long enough to really take a crack at it, so I figured I would do it myself.”

“Why? I mean, why arithmetic?”

The Prince shrugged, and if he could have hidden in his shirt, he would have. “Dunno, I like numbers. They don’t lie about what they are, you know? Don’t have to read between the lines to know what you’re getting at. It’s just… it is what it is, I guess. Always liked that kind of freedom.”

Aziraphale wondered how free he felt when he snuck out of the palace, when he wore a disguise and used a different name. He wondered if he felt more like himself as Prince Crowley, or as Anthony. He wondered what he would see if the person sitting across from him didn’t have to pretend to be either.

The arithmetic book was gently closed and placed up on the desk. “I wish you had been around when I was taking my course. I probably would have suffered a great deal fewer long nights if I had had your help.” The tutor tried not to think too hard about any other reasons he might have wanted the Prince around back then.

Crowley, on the other hand, was using every ounce of self control he could muster to keep himself from explaining that, if they had known each other back then, and Crowley had had his way, there would have been a great deal of long nights, hopefully free of any arithmetic or anything else studious. Because then Aziraphale would look up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes scandalized, and Crowley would surely explode.

Instead, he said, “Right. So, philosophy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I've decided that this is similar to roughly Victorian times? Like, early electricity days? And mechanical pencils were around back then. They were the twisty kind and made of polished wood and were very nice. Charles Dickens wrote with one. So, anyway, that's the pencil Crowley is using.   
> Comments and kudos make me do the Aziraphale wiggle <3

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think. Comments and kudos are always graciously appreciated <3


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